


you’re still one

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Assets & Handlers, Brock overreacting, Favoritism, Immaturity, Jealousy, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Secret Relationship, low calorie angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22262404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: The asset doesn’t have preferences but when he expresses one Brock is unhappyOrThe one where Brock Rumlow throws a fit
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	you’re still one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalika999 (kalika_999)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> Beta’d and encouraged by the wonderful Kalika999 — what would I do without her?

Getting the Asset out of safehouse mode and into Soldier mode was a careful process that Rumlow had perfected. He was a creature of habit so naturally that bled into the Soldier’s conditioning. The ghost of a personality he had in the safehouse was acceptable only because it was less unsettling than vacant stares and robotic movements. It didn’t make the wide eyed look of permanent shock and confusion any less agitating but Brock handled it like a professional, in his humble opinion. 

The Asset was on the op simply to keep it busy between the missions where the Fist of Hydra was truly needed because the cryogenic process was apparently very expensive and some pencil pusher decided it was ‘easier’ to keep it thawed. 

Brock didn’t care until the Asset became his problem, a tacked on complication that he was expected to utilize when really it was better left on base in its little square cell and not under his men’s feet. But did anyone care what Brock thought? Not a goddamn one of them. 

“Alright Winter,” Brock sighed, digging into the black bag where they kept sedatives especially for it, a tranq gun and a couple adrenaline shots, should the need arrive, for the tiny tin of black paint. 

Winter seemed half dressed wearing Kevlar and leather but still barefooted and bare faced. His hair was still slightly damp from being hosed off a few hours prior. They’d been holed up going over the blueprints of the rural cabin they were targeting for just shy of seventy two hours and within that time Winter had spent the time shuffling from room to room, pestering just about everyone who bumped into him. 

It had only taken two of these run ins for Brock to banish him to the decrepit little bookshelf hosting three books which was a mistake when he started volunteering facts he learned about the construction of local covered bridges. The most annoying part wasn’t his willingness to talk without being spoken to but Jack actually contributing. 

His upset certainly had nothing to do with Brock’s need to have Jack’s full attention, even on a mission when their relationship should have been the last thing in mind. Winter was just especially annoying. 

Winter shuffled backward a few steps, head tilting toward the floor instead up toward the ceiling so Brock could apply the paint. 

“I want Agent Rollins,” Winter murmured.

“Sorry?” Brock was certain he heard wrong. The Asset never made demands, never once refused an order and definitely never showed preference. 

Winter seemed confused a moment and Brock wondered if he was hearing things. 

“I like it when...Agent Rollins...does it.” Winter’s brows drew together as he slowly pieced together his words, like it was somehow just occurring to him. 

Brock froze unsure if this was a malfunction or if the Asset was getting too independent. He was also kind of pissed off because what was so fucking special about Jack? Except for the way he could cradle Brock’s face in one hand, or how his green eyes had little flecks of blue in the moonlight, or how he always smelled like fresh mountain air — but the Asset didn’t know that and no one but Brock was supposed to! 

“You want Jack.”

The confusion clouding his blue gray eyes cleared up at Brock’s lackluster summary. He bobbed his head once, metal hand twisting over the flesh one and the corners of his mouth twitching the way they did when watching Brock portion him out a bit of real food to try after his shake. He was excited and that pissed Brock off even though he couldn’t put a finger on why.

His hands curled into fists and he was struck with the urge to hit Winter but punishment without solid cause fucked up his reasoning abilities and Brock didn’t need this mission going south because he got wires crossed. The tin edge bit into his palm but that dull pain did nothing but fan the flames of anger burning hot in his stomach. 

“Fine,” he spit and Winter flinched as if the word itself was a blow. It may as well have been with the amount of anger contained in it. 

The practical, and no doubt professional, thing to do was to call Jack into the back room where all the gear was piled. Brock could have then seethed in peace without making a spectacle of himself and giving new evidence to the rumors he knew were circulating about his and Jack’s relationship. Unfortunately, Brock’s ability to think critically was hindered by Winter’s sheer assholery in making a request as to who smeared paint around his eyes. Clearly discipline was lacking somewhere, Brock thought heatedly as his footsteps fell heavy on the safehouse floor.

Jack was looking over the blueprints still, sitting at the table surrounded by pieces of Winter’s rifle. After the mask was fitted Winter would assemble it himself and by the time the last piece was in, he was the perfect Soldier. 

“Here.”

Brock should have calmly handed it to him, maybe held it out to him. Hell even chucking it on the table in front of him would have been better, and far more advisable than his next move. He mustered all of his strength, drew back, and let it fly right at Jack’s back. The sound of impact wasn’t loud but in such a small space, it was deafening. 

Jack didn’t react immediately, even as the tin clattered noisy the floor, rolling until it hit the chair leg and then fell flat. Brock could hear the blood pounding in his ears and feel the eyes of Garth and Thompson from across the room where they were putting together their go bags. 

“Ow.” Jack turned around, pine green eyes hardened slits of confusion and anger.

Brock’s palms felt a little clammy and his tongue swollen. Part of him wanted to apologize and the other part wanted to try again for his head. “Tell him,” Brock said instead, turning his anger on the Asset which felt a little better.

Winter had his head cocked curiously, eyes focused on the container but his attention returned to Brock and he once more seemed stumped. 

“... Commander?”

Brock blew out a heated breath reminding himself that getting a good hit on the Asset was not worth spoiling this op. Pierce had sent men to their death for less. “Tell him what you said. About the paint.”

Winter’s eyes slid over to where Jack was twisted around looking just as annoyed as ever. 

“I like it when you do it.”

Hearing it a second time, especially right here where everyone else could also hear the disgusting favoritism made Brock’s blood sing. 

“You hear that, Rollins? He likes it when you do it.”

“Yeah, boss. I heard him.” Jack hadn’t looked away from Brock once while Winter spoke and while it was unsettling, it was also intriguing. “How come, Win?”

“You don’t pull my hair if I move.” 

Brock was — well, okay, he felt a little stupid. Typically the job was assigned to Jack because Brock was simply too busy and when Jack was also too busy it meant that they were in a time crunch and shit had to get done fast. So, yeah, if Winter started getting restless or was moving around too much and was gonna fuck up Brock’s handiwork he used that mop of hair to his advantage. Maybe it was foolish but he hadn’t really thought about Winter recognizing it as pain. He hardly seemed human so him feeling human sensations was alien to Brock. 

“Imagine that.” Jack said deadly. 

He rose and retrieved the tin, one edge of it dented so Brock would have to write it off and think of a reason it would have gotten damaged when the rest of the kit was in perfect condition. There was a new heat in his chest: embarrassment. 

But he was still feeling righteous even if his pride stung. 

“You coddle him too fucking much.” 

“Not pulling his hair is coddling?” Jack asked. “Damn Boss, some childhood you must’ve had.” 

Brock flexed his hands a few times, scorned and stinging from the callous (but good) point. “Maybe he’s getting sweet on you.” Brock finally grumbled, unwilling to admit defeat by letting Jack get the last word. 

And maybe a few licks of anger warmed his chest as he watched the careful way Jack traces paint around Winter’s eyes, at one point gently nudging his hair out of the way and behind his ear. When Winter got restless, eyes flickering to the rifle, Jack simply stopped and said, “Almost done, Winnie.” which calmed him. 

By the time the mask was fitted and Winter was a distant memory with the vacant glossed over stare of the Soldier directed at him, Brock began to realize he’d overreacted. 

Brock Rumlow doesn’t apologize however, so he left it as it was. The fact Winter preferred Jack simply due to a few tugs of his hair sat in a permanent itch beneath his skin. Maybe the next time he was thawed, he’d try to use his words like Jack did. Not that he cared, of course. 

(But, maybe, he did a little.)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
